Anxious to see my newly-born grandson (in 2010) but separated by the distance between Nashville and Boston, I wrote him a letter-poem. Many years from now, I hope he will sense the passion I felt for him from the moment of his birth.

   The photograph (although not of my daughter & grandsom) reflects the deep-life link between mother and baby. There are other bonds that matter. 

   Both poem & photograph speak to the Golden Thread that weaves through all of us – strands woven by our ancestors into a fabric handed to us at our births. 

   The Golden Thread is the first of the three core concepts of Radical Loving Care. Each day every caregiver holds the ancient strand of healing in his or her hands.

   It is a sacred trust. We can illuminate the thread or we can break it.

   As for the poem, it is offered as a tribute to our fellowship as Lovers of healing.

To my grandson, newly born, from your Grandfather Chapman – June, 2010

 In last light cardinals & wrens evensong
each other home to night’s nest. Only the
mockingbird remains.

 You live in another
country. Mountains, the layers of cities, the long span of age, the worries of
others separate you from me.

 Clear as I speak,
you cannot hear me. Hard as you cry, I cannot feed you. Hard as I cry you
cannot hear my need for you.

 Do you miss the
comfort of your mother’s within: the whisper of voices outside, the muffled bells of
love?

 New to the world,
you test earth’s air with fresh arms, beginner’s legs, the power of your lungs.

 We share a single
strand. It weaves through your blood with other threads that tint your skin,
texture your bones, focus the color of your eyes, signal our lifelong bond.

 We are blood
brothers.

 From another
country, my father wants to know you. His father wants to know you. These men greet you
through ether’s mist.  

  I want to hold
you amid the sinew of this world.

  How do you hear the
colors of the day? What flows through your heart when you find your mother’s skin, your
father’s arms, the curious touch of your sister’s fingers, or hear your
grandmother’s sighs?

 When will I see the
curve of your shoulders, the dark of your eyes, the silk of your hair? When will I hear
the timbre of your voice & feel
the heft of your body as it claims its part of the world?

 I tire of longing. I am done with the absence
of ecstasy.

 Son of my daughter,
grandson of my wife, child of the earth, I reach, now, across the mountains,
the cities, the distance of our ages. I lift you to the clouds to glimpse the raw, unlived
chapters of your life.

 May I see you before
I leave? May I hear your
voice before you begin to sort out the world’s words?

 -Erie Chapman

Photograph: Julie & Ryder 2010 copyright erie chapman 2012.